


Broken Boy Soldier

by BellumGerere



Series: Chemical Prisoner [3]
Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellumGerere/pseuds/BellumGerere
Summary: Sequel to "Breaking The Habit." A former Dauntless leader whose life was shattered by a syringe and an initiate who let him shatter her too. Torn apart by a brutal war, will they ever be reunited? AU/OOC. Rating may change. (On permanent hiatus.)





	1. In Transit

**Author's Note:**

> so i started this in 2015 and god knows if i'll ever finish it (in 2019 when i'm writing this) but i wanted to post it anyway since i'm trying to make the works published on my ao3 and ffn the same. i'm basically just sticking up everything i have and we'll see if it ever goes anywhere -bel

Blood is a strange color. In my veins it is blue running alongside brown. When a bullet goes through my foot it comes out red as Asher’s lipstick, and dries like rust. Eventually it will fade away to angry pink scars, and slowly blend back into my pale skin. After that happens, I will not remember the beginning of the war, or knocking out my own mother, or laying in a train car on the way to Erudite headquarters spending entirely too much time thinking about blood. The world as I knew it has come crashing down around me and here I am, acting like it’s an ordinary day, an ordinary high.

Later, after the euphoria erodes to a headache and the pain in my foot (not to mention my broken nose) returns, I will remember that it was a terrible idea to let Christina shoot me up in the first place. I could have managed without the drugs, especially since I’d been so committed to quitting, at least for a couple days. But then she’d convinced me with her pleading eyes, so obviously concerned for my well-being, and now I’m back to square one, wondering if, at this point, after two years, I’ll ever find the incentive to quit.  Maybe if the pain finally stops—but that’s unrealistic. It will never stop, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to live through it without a little medicinal assistance.

I sit up to stare out of the train and the wind whips in, flinging my greasy, tangled hair around my face, where I have to work it out of several probably-infected piercings. There is blood crusted under my nose from when I fell on the steps and smashed it. My first priority when I pass all the security checks at Erudite will be to clean myself up. I know I can heal my nose in an instant, if I can get access to the right medicine, and to do that, I need to look the part of a loyal Dauntless lackey, one of Jeanine’s many lapdogs.

In my pocket is a strip of blue fabric long enough to wrap around and tie onto my arm. (I try not to think about what else it could be used for regarding my arm.) By putting it on, I more or less pledge my allegiance to Erudite. I become one of those faceless lapdogs, destined only to do my mother’s bidding, at least for a little while. Just until I can safely leave and get back to Christina. I’m already going crazy with worry, and we’ve barely been apart for twenty minutes. If the Dauntless traitors show up at Candor…I shudder at the thought.

The voice in the back of my head, the sensible part of me, knows that she will probably be safe in Candor, at least for now. They’re likely to stay out of the conflict as a whole until the truth is revealed—or the most convenient version of the truth, anyway. The version that somehow makes their faction look good and the others look evil. And Jeanine is the master of manipulation. Getting the others on her side will be child’s play for her.

There are lights beginning to flicker in the corner of my vision. Erudite headquarters. Their lights are almost always on, city ordinances be damned, though it makes sense for them to have them on now, now that a war has broken out and they are at the helm of it. They’re probably got the place locked up tight, so I’ll have to be ready to go through a lot of security checkpoints before they even let me through the door.

I take a deep breath and begin the arduous process of pulling myself up to my feet. It’s a long time coming, but I finally manage to do it, and sling my bag over my shoulder. I’m leaning slightly to one side, I realize, because of my foot. I wonder how long I will be limping, how well they can heal it, considering I’ve been walking and running and jumping on it strictly against doctor’s orders. Will they even heal me, after I so openly defied my mother? Will the leave me on the street to rot, or put a target on my back?

But I don’t have time to worry about that right now. The lights are in the center of the train door and if I don’t start moving now, I’ll miss them entirely. I don’t bother with a running start, it won’t help me regain my balance when I land. I just jump, and fall on hard concrete, bruising and scraping myself further, though I manage to avoid landing on my face again. It takes me yet another minute to get up, using a streetlamp as leverage. Upright, I survey my location. I am only a few blocks away from Erudite headquarters, and I can already see guards patrolling the streets. No matter which way I go, they are going to see me, and might even shoot at me if I don’t make it clear who I am.

I reach into the outside pocket of my bag and pull out the blue strip of fabric. It makes me sick to look at it, much less wear it, and the thought of actually physically showing the world that I am outwardly supportive of my mother’s suicide plan is a disgusting one. But I have to, if I want them to let me though. Slowly, with fumbling bloody hands, I tie it around my arm. Then, head held high, I stride down the streets towards Erudite headquarters.

As suspected, everyone I pass is immediately on guard. Many of them point guns at me, but I just keep walking, trying to look like I belong here. It almost wouldn’t make a difference if they shot me, though. I would rather die than carry out her insane orders. But I can’t. I promised Christina I would see her again. So, even though it is beyond painful not to limp, I keep walking.

The closer I get to the door of Erudite headquarters, the more guards there are, and the more they respond to my presence. A few even look like they want to stop me, but they don’t. I can be intimidating when I need to be, especially covered in blood and piercings. Putting on this act is not strange for me—in the past two years, it’s how I’ve gotten people to leave me alone, by playing the role of unapproachable Dauntless leader. That skill, acquired from years of being alone, is serving me well now, and for a moment I stop worrying and begin to hope I might actually make it through unscathed.

And then, of course, I am stopped right at the door.

“What’s your name?” the head guard asks, throwing his arm over the entrance. Next to him, another guard holds up a scanner. Hey don’t really need to ask my name; it will tell them, as well as all my vital stats—height, weight, blood type, current and former faction, and most importantly, what my aptitude test results were. Always looking for Divergents, Jeanine is. Not that I personally need to worry about that. My test labelled me a textbook Erudite, of course. Those results were not an accident.

“Eric Matthews,” I say coldly, just as the guard from the scanner looks up, his face white. I don’t know what it says about me on that thing, but right now I’m dying to find out. He taps the shoulder of the man who stopped me and holds up the scanner.

“Interesting,” the head guard says, smirking as he looks up at me. “I knew there was something off about you.

 _Off?_ What does that mean? “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying, but I can assure you you’ll find nothing wrong with my scan.” I try to keep my voice as cool and collected as possible but on the inside I am on fire, and not just because I’m high. What could they possibly see on that scanner that is making them react that way?

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it,” the guard counters. “Just interesting. You’ve been cleared for entry. Follow me.”

“I know where I’m going,” I say, almost snapping.

“I do realize you were once Erudite, Mr. Matthews. However, our orders were to bring you straight to Jeanine, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.” He turns and starts into the building and I have no choice but to follow, hoping no one will notice how my hands are shaking.


	2. Erudite

They lead me down hallways whose twists and turns I already have memorized, acting as if I’ve never even laid eyes on the compound before. It’s almost painful, actually, being led around like a dog on a leash. Jeanine’s dog, which I’ve unwillingly been the whole time. I don’t speak to the guards, and they apparently realize it’s better to let me stew in silence. This continues all the way to the door of Jeanine’s office, where they throw their arms out in front of me and I grind to a screeching halt. “Wait here,” one of them instructs, and they vanish through the door, leaving me alone.

So for a few minutes I stand there, eyeing the security cameras mounted in the upper corners of the door frame. They’re incredibly small, made to be invisible to the naked eye, but when you know a building as well as I know the Erudite compound, you start to notice things like that. Not that the guards would believe that. I wonder if they even know about the cameras, or if that’s a little administrative secret. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jeanine had an entire network of cameras no one else knows about, just to make sure everybody does her bidding.

The door opens again and through it I see a guard beckoning me forward. I step through without hesitation, even though every part of me is screaming leave, this is bad, this is wrong. To be here is not to be where I need to be—with Christina. Anything could have happened to her by now. The traitor Dauntless could hurt her. Candor could reject her. She might not even be alive right now. The thought sends me into a mild fit and I stop abruptly in the middle of the door frame, hyperventilating. I look up and there she is, the bitch herself, sitting with hands folded behind her desk. She raises an eyebrow at me and I straighten up, evening out my breathing, because I can’t appear weak in front of her, I just can’t. Not if I ever want to get out of here.

“I was wondering when you would grace us with your presence,” she says, and this time I am not the only one who hears the current of anger beneath her sarcastic remark. She dismisses the guards with a flick of her wrist, and they are only too happy to obey, scurrying out and letting the door close behind them with a thud. Now it is just us, so quiet I could hear a needle drop.

“Why do you want me here?” I blurt. “So you can have a set of five? Look like you’ve got more support than you actually do? Only half of the faction is behind you. We could easily outnumber you if it came to that.” Okay, I don’t know about that, and most of that was bluffing, but I’ve made my point. What’s the use of making me support her? She might as well kill me. Either way, all she’s done is create a martyr.

“To the contrary, my dear.” I cringe. She only does that to make me uncomfortable, and right now it’s working. “You’ll find the numbers are undeniably skewed in my favor. Over half the Dauntless have already checked in at the door, and I have no reason to believe more won’t follow suit.”

More than half? That can’t possibly be right. The groups I saw earlier looked fairly even. Besides, not that many people could actually think my crazy mother is right. I don’t necessarily think the faction system is good, even though I fled to it to escape my past, but to dismantle it forcibly through an all-out war? That’s not the way to go about this, and she knows it. She just wants to be in charge, and war is a perfect way to make everyone look to her for guidance.

“They won’t,” I reply, hoping my nervousness doesn’t show too much. “Sooner or later they’re all going to realize you’re wrong, and then you’ll have no one.” It’s probably too much to ask for. People are like sheep, flocking to whoever has the biggest crook, and right now, that’s Jeanine. This is the least chaotic faction, that’s for sure. No screaming, no blood, no death. At least not visibly.

“I doubt that. It was a valiant effort on your part, though.” She’s grinning in a way that says she’s won, and I can’t stand it. I have to say something, or else I might explode from all the emotion I’m holding in.

“What’s there to stop me from just leaving?” _Great idea, Eric. Threaten her. That’ll do us all so much good_. But it’s the only thing I can think of and besides, I’m technically right. If I can get Christina to safety, I can follow her, and they’d never be able to find us. I could just fight my way out right now…

“Asher.”

I freeze, my hands clenches into fists to hide their shaking. How could I have completely forgotten about Asher? I am her only hope of returning to life, and I nearly just threw that away. Words cannot even describe the shame I feel at forgetting the one person who knows absolutely everything about me, the person I’ve spent most of my life with.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, looking at the barely-controlled trembling of my hands, the tears gathering behind my eyes, making them glisten. Seeing her in an Erudite test lab, hooked up to machines that were living for her while she lay there battered and helpless, was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do, and now I’m seeing it again in the back of my mind, in all its painful glory. I’m sure she knows the anguish she’s awoken in me, and she wants me to remember it, or else she wouldn’t bring it up. What I need to keep in mind if I stay here (and it looks like I’ll have to) is that nothing my mother does is without a purpose. If she brings up Asher—even going so far as to use the nickname I coined, which she always hated—she wants to make sure that Ash, and her death, and the possibility I might see her again, are at the front of my mind, and Christina is at the back. She’s doing this because she doesn’t want me to leave.

“Why do you need me so much?” I know I’ve asked the same question over and over, but I can’t help it. She has yet to give me a straight answer.

“Plenty of time for that, my sweet son. Plenty of time.” Her sarcastic terms of endearment are making me want to vomit, and I grit my teeth. Somehow I have to get through this. It’s only for a little while, I keep reminding myself. Just until I’m safe, and they’re safe.

“Now, then.” She shuffles some of the papers on her desk and pulls out a folder. On the tab I see the name _Matthews, Eric_. My file. She opens it and on the top of the stack of papers inside is a copy of my latest scan, the one I took at the door. The one that the guard said something was off about. I tilt my head in an attempt to read it, but the print is too small and I am too far away, not to mention the paper is upside-down. “We noticed something interesting about your scan when you were stopped at the door.”

“I’m aware.” My voice is controlled, not shaking at all, but as usual, my hands belie my nervousness. What could possibly be so wrong with it?

“It seems you still haven’t been able to kick a certain nasty little habit.”

Of course. Instigate. The scan recognized something foreign in my bloodstream and recorded it in my date. And it’s highly likely this isn’t the first time it’s happened—just the first time someone’s mentioned it.

“I wasn’t aware it was a problem,” I reply smoothly.

“Well, it is, and we’re going to have to fix it. Luckily, I have just the thing.” She makes a small motion with her hand, and the door opens behind me. Suddenly I am surrounded by guards.

“I’ve been working on a new serum aimed specifically at your…problem.”

I feel a needle in my neck and I fall to the ground, my vision rapidly blurring.

“One shot should do it.”


	3. Candor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is told in a dual pov and it switches every 2 chapters - this one and the next one are christina's pov, then it's back to eric, etc

Candor headquarters is easily the tallest building in the sector, eighteen stories of black-and-white marble. The letters over the door spell out MERC IS MART. Apparently, it used to read ‘Merchandise Mart’ (though the letters fell off long before I was born) but it has since been nicknamed the Merciless Mart because of my former faction’s unending devotion to honesty. It is a cruel name, but not entirely untrue. Candor has been known to practically torture people in order to get the truth—or, at least, the truth they want. The serum they use can be painful if one tries to resist it. I’ve seen initiates break under its influence and become factionless as a result, in the final stage of Candor initiation. It was one of the reasons I changed factions to begin with. I don’t want everyone knowing my secrets—especially now.

I can’t help but wonder if my life would have differed greatly had I stayed, or if either way I would end up here, standing in front of the Merciless Mart with wringing hands. Despite the fact that it’s against city ordinances, all the lights are on, and Candor stream inside from surrounding apartments, most in pajamas and wearing confused looks. I scan the crowd, looking for anyone I know, anyone in Dauntless clothing. Maybe they didn’t come here. Maybe they all turned traitor, in which case we are fucked. But I can’t keep myself from searching for a particular face, even though I know I won’t see him. By now he will be well on his way to Erudite, right into the mouth of the beast.

Until he comes back, I’m going to worry that he’d dead. Anything could happen to him there. Jeanine could decide any moment that he’d be of more use to her dead than alive. The thought alone is so painful that I dig my nails into the raw, bloody skin on my arm to try and distract myself form it. It doesn’t work—not like I expected it to. Tears prick the back of my eyes and I blink them back. I can’t let this get to me, not now. He told me to be safe.

In order to further distract myself, I return to scanning the faces in front of me. I am beginning to see bloody Dauntless uniforms mixing in with the confused Candor. Soon they will arrive in droves, and the faction leaders will have to decide what to do with them. Hopefully they will let us stay. I don’t know where I’ll go if they reject us. My heart is telling me that if I went to Erudite headquarters, they wouldn’t kill me because of my association with Eric, but my head knows this is a lie. They would shoot me on sight and not even Eric, Dauntless leader and son of the mastermind, could stop it. No, following the group would probably be the best way to go if they did kick us out. At least then, there would be people looking out for me.

When I focus on the crowd, I see much more interesting things than the inner turmoil in my head. The curious and worried whispers have become interspersed with screams, some joyful, some anguished. Sometimes I forget I am not the only Dauntless with family in Candor. Usually they would ignore it. Faction before blood, right? But now that Dauntless is a wasteland, the idea of factions is ridiculous to me. I am no longer Candor, nor am I Dauntless. I am simply Christina, and Christina is lost.

Why, then, is someone calling my name?

I gasp as a body slams into me, arms wrap around me. Instinctively, I hug them back, even though I have no idea who this person is. The build is tall and muscular, probably a male, but definitely not the one I wish it was. Under my fingers I feel the rough material of a Dauntless training jacket instead of smooth leather. There is no hair falling into my eyes, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Most Dauntless wear it short, if for no other reason than to keep it out of the way during stunts. I want so badly for it to be Eric, but I know it can’t be.

The question remains, though: Who is it?

I look up, and to my surprise it’s Uriah. “What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice is half gasp and half shocked hoarseness. I could’ve sworn I saw his older brother Zeke with the traitor Dauntless, and I’d assumed they would stick together. To be honest, I don’t even know either of them that well, but to see a familiar face in the middle of all this chaos is exactly what I needed, even if I didn’t quite realize it until now. If only it was the face I actually wanted to see…

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” His words snap me to attention, and I actually look at his face, taking in his confused expression. “Eric was looking for you earlier. I assumed you were going with the leaders.” He pauses and furrows his brow. He’s smart enough to know that something doesn’t add up here. I just hope he doesn’t figure out the real connection. Instigate isn’t exactly illegal, but it would definitely bad for Eric if the wrong people found out about his habit. “If you’re here, then where is he?”

I exhale, and some of the tension leaves my body. This I can handle. This I expected. “At Erudite headquarters. He has to keep up appearances, being a leader. But he’s on our side.” He frowns. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. “You can trust me on this, Uriah.”

“It’s not you I can’t trust.” As angry as it makes me, I understand where he’s coming from. When I first met Eric Matthews I saw him the same way everyone else did—a cruel leader who was probably too young to fully understand his responsibilities. Then he found me in the hallway and my perception shifted to confused drug addict with a bit of a mean streak. And what is he to me now? Even after so much emotional (not to mention physical) intimacy, I’m still not sure. But part of me loves him, and he told me he feels the same. His motives are sometimes sketchy, his morals twisted, but I know I can trust him to tell me the truth. If I couldn’t, I would have let him put me right into the path of danger if he told me he was protecting me. But he didn’t. I’m here, and I’m alive, which to me is proof enough of his loyalty.

“Look, I know what you must think of him. But right now I need you to believe me when I say he can be trusted. I mean, you say he was looking for me, and I’m here, right? Alive and unscathed.” I spread my arms so he can see that my clothes aren’t torn, and the only blood on them is Will’s. Thinking about him in conjunction with Eric makes my head hurt, so I push the thought away for now. Uriah doesn’t look convinced.

“How do I know he isn’t just making you say that?” I can’t help but roll my eyes at that one. Does he really not believe I can hold my own against a Dauntless leader? He wasn’t there, I remember, when Eric hung me over the chasm. If he had been, maybe he would think differently of me. Then again, he might just see me as the victim of a senseless act of intimidation and violence. He’d be wrong. Yes, Eric shouldn’t have done it, but he had an explanation, at least. That had to count for something.

“You know what? Fine,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “If you want to demonize an innocent person who was forced into doing something he didn’t want to do, go right ahead. But I’m smarter than that.”

I probably should have phrased that differently, I think as he opens his mouth to retort. But (to my everlasting gratefulness) he is cut off by another person yelling my name. No, two people, and the voices sound like they’re probably female. I peer around him at the crowd and see two figures, definitely feminine, break away from the stream and run towards me.

“Do you know them?” Uriah asks, looking over his shoulder. I realize he doesn’t know this is where I transferred from.

“Yes,” I reply, and for the first time since I left Eric I feel a genuine smile begin to appear on my face. “It’s my family.”


	4. Family

For some reason, they look surprised to see me, I can tell. But they must have seen the other loyal Dauntless heading for the Merciless Mart. Did they think I would turn traitor? (Have I been dead to them since I switched?) Do they even know what’s going on? (Was I ever alive to them in the first place?) As they near me I can see their expressions, and though they look relieved to see me, I know better. The confusion shines through more than anything. They want to know what I am doing—what _we_ are doing—ruining the perfect world the two of the built after my father abandoned us.

Even though it’s the least important thing on my mind right now, the thought of my father still stings. Divorce is common in Candor—if a marriage isn’t working out, why lie about it? Better to let things fall apart. Even so, what my father did to us was exceptionally cruel, even for Candor—in fact, it almost got him kicked out of the faction. He was caught cheating. It’s one of the worst forms of lying, and if he hadn’t been such a smooth talker, he would have been out on the street, factionless. He’s still here, though, happily married to the woman who ruined the lives of my family. So began the growing of an emotional rift between me and my mother and sister that became a break when I transferred.

 _At least you had a father_ , a voice in my head whispers. Yes, I’m being selfish, and I mentally admonish myself for it. I remember a night in the hallway, one of many, when (before he got too fucked up to talk) Eric told me about his sorry excuse for a mother, his parentless childhood. It could always be worse. I could’ve been saddled with Jeanine. How he lasted sixteen years under her control, I don’t know. At least I had a happy decade before my family fell apart.

“Christina! Thank God you’re alright.” Suddenly I am caught up in yet another embrace, this one trying and failing to be motherly. Even when we were a supposedly happy family, she could never quite pull that one off. My sister lurks behind her. She is tall and slender like me, but that’s where the similarities end. Whereas I prefer to keep my hair short, hers is almost down to her waist, and though she loves fashion and makeup as much as I do (or, at least, as much as I used to) she does it for all the wrong reasons. All she’s ever been concerned with is attracting boys. The part of me that still cares worries constantly about where she’ll end up in a few years.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say breathlessly as I untangle myself from her chilly embrace. I look around and realize Uriah has slipped away, and a weight drops into the pit of my stomach. Childish as it is, I was going to use him as a distraction so I wouldn’t be taking the full force of their attention. Rose, at least, probably would have stopped noticing me completely if he was around. But he’s gone and they’re both staring, waiting for me to say something else. “Do you two even know what’s going on?”

“No,” Rose says in a tone that clearly implies that she thinks I’m an idiot. “We just heard all the screaming and came downstairs. How could we possibly fucking know—?”

“What your sister means to say,” my mother interrupts, sending Rose a glare, “is that we were woken by all the commotion, and when we looked outside and saw the Dauntless, we thought you might be here.” Something about her story seems off, but I dismiss it for now. My mother always tries to paint herself in the best possible light. Why would this be any different? Even when all our lives are at stake, she’s still the same narcissistic bitch. It’s hard not to roll my eyes at her and my sister. I just escaped the battlefield of a full-blown war, and they’re acting like children. 

But I hold my tongue. “Of course” is all I say, even though I want to say so much more. Part of me wants to scream at her for abandoning my sister and I emotionally after my father left. To accuse her of widening the gap between us on purpose by dropping hints that we should transfer. To ask her why she looked so relieved when I actually did. I know this isn’t the time to be saying these things, but for a minute all I can think about is shoving it back in her face, what a terrible person she is. And then I see the look on my sister’s face and realize, in a way, I already have.

“We just rushed right outside to find you. And we’re so glad to see you’re not hurt, darling.” Her hands flit over my jacket, and I can tell she sees the blood because her nose wrinkles. “You _are_ unharmed, aren’t you?”

“Yes. The blood isn’t mine.” I pause, wondering if I should tell them, and then decide it would do no harm. “A friend of mine was shot and killed.”

My sister, for what it’s worth, at least has the courtesy to appear genuinely upset and concerned for my well-being. On the other hand, my mother’s sympathetic noises are all too fake. I wonder how she made it this long in Candor, considering her every movement is a lie. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” She draws me into another stiff-armed hug, and I can feel the tension in my own shoulders double, drawn stiff by her embrace. I cannot exhale until she draws back.

I am about to mumble some false words of thanks, hoping to placate her for the time being, when over her shoulder, I spot a familiar head of artificially-red hair. “Ivoree!” I yell, hoping it’s her, and that I got her name right, because I really need to talk to one of his friends right now. And she turns her head and sees me, making me exhale in silent relief. She comes up to me and hugs me and I don’t mind so much this time, because I know she’s actually happy to see me. I can’t help but hope she has some news about Eric, though I know since she’s here and he isn’t, it’s unlikely.

“Are you okay?” I ask before she can say anything. Eric and I didn’t see her at Abnegation. Or David, for that matter, which makes it all the more odd, because they’re usually inseparable. I wonder if he faked defecting to keep an eye on Eric. If he did, I am eternally in his debt.

“I’m fine. David’s not here, though. Have you seen him?” I shake my head. So they were separated. She doesn’t know if he’s here or not. My heart sinks. “What about Eric?”

“He had to go with the traitors,” I say, feeling the weight of the words press my shoulders down. “He’s a leader. They would have killed him otherwise.” The look on her face has changed to one of pure horror, and she’s shaking her head back and forth, although that gesture appears unconscious “What?” I ask slowly, not sure if I actually want an answer.

“Candor just issued a statement. That’s why I was out here, hoping to find you.” This does not bode well, especially considering the look on her face. “Any leader who comes here—or any traitor, for that matter—is to be immediately arrested and detained for questioning. And if they don’t like what they hear…”

“No.” It’s me who’s shaking my head now, but I can’t help it. This is the worst possible outcome. If she’s about to say what I think she is, then I have no choice but to remain separated from Eric. He will be in even more constant danger than he is now. Despite the fact that every cell in my body is rejecting this information, she continues anyway.

“…if he comes here, Eric could get killed.”


	5. Father

When I wake, my head is pounding, and Christian is above me.

I blink a few times to clear my blurry vision, and I assume she will disappear with the spots, but she doesn’t. She looks exquisite above me, dirty blonde hair tousled, face thin and paler than I remember. But Instigate will do that to you. I myself am nothing more than skin and bone now. This wouldn’t be the first time a serum of my mother’s induced vivid fever dreams. I wave my heavy hand in front of my face and am surprised to see it catch on her cheekbone. Her skin is warm and soft and she immediately puts her hand over mine and grips it tight, like she’s afraid I’ll slip away, that all this is just a dream.

“Eric,” she says, and there is an urgency in her voice, a longing that draws me in and pulls me taut against her words, and I’ll do whatever she wants. “You have to listen to me, okay? Because in a few minutes they’re going to knock you out again, and when you wake up you won’t remember any of this. But you have to try and remember this. You need to know I’m alive, okay? This is real, and I’m here. Asher, too.”

My breath catches in my chest and it hurts, a sharp blinding pain that steals the air straight from my lungs. “Asher’s alive?” I remember it all too vividly: the blood seeping from wounds in her head and chest and hands, carrying her to the infirmary while the life slipped out of her, the seemingly odd last request that her body be sent back to Erudite instead of being cremated like most Dauntless. By the time I ended up here I’d all but given up hope that I’ll ever see her again. She would never know that everything I did, every horrible command of my mother’s I obeyed, it was all for her. I wouldn’t risk her second chance at life, even if it meant destroying my first and only.

She nods, and the smile on her face is bittersweet. “Yeah, she is. I was there when she woke up.” Is it my imagination or is she crying? I can feel water on the tips of my fingers. Or is it sweat? I’m so nervous that it wouldn’t surprise me, though my mouth is dry. And Christian never so much as sheds a tear, not even when the rankings went up for Stage One and she was lowest among the transfers, not after the fear simulations like so many of us did, not even in the moments leading up to her death. To see her eyes shining with tears is a shock, and not entirely a pleasant one, though it doesn’t mitigate my joy at seeing her alive.

“Can I see her?” A spot on the back of my limp left hand is beginning to feel cold. I look over (it is difficult to tear my eyes away from her) and there is an IV in my hand, pumping into my body a liquid the color of springtime. I’m not quite sure what it is but I know it’s meant to knock me out, and it’s working. It’s becoming more and more difficult to keep my heavy eyes open, and I feel as if I haven’t slept in years. “I want to see her now.”

Christian’s face is painted on the back of my eyelids when they slip shut, and she is upset. “You can see her soon, I promise. Don’t forget, okay? I need you to remember me.”

~oOo~

I can tell when I peel my eyes open again that a very significant amount of time has passed. The room was dark in my vague memories of waking and falling back asleep, but now light is flooding in through a little slit of a window so high up that even I, at six foot three, would not be able to reach it—if I had the ability to use my legs, that is. But my entire body is numb except for my throbbing head and parched-dry throat. I know what that feeling means, better than I know anything. These are the first symptoms of withdrawal.

But that’s impossible. There’s no way I could already be this far into the life-or-death cycle that is my addiction. The turnaround time from high to withdrawn is a short one, it’s true, but not _this_ short, not less than twenty-four hours. I should still be at the very top of the mountain now, not already careening towards the bottom, but that’s where I am. My arms and legs are fastened to the table—I can see the sterile white strap around one of my wrists, and assume they must be everywhere else too. I picture a band around my torso, holding me in place, and it makes me sick.

The door flies open and I shut my eyes, trying to make it look as though I am still knocked out. It could be anyone coming inside, and if they do not expect me to be awake, it might mean trouble for me. Sharp footsteps and polished shoes (because what else would someone from Erudite wear?) stop inches from my bed and I am cold all over, frozen with anxiety. I feel fingers at my wrist, checking for a pulse, and then a sigh.

“I know you’re awake, Eric,” a male voice says, mildly exasperated, and the pressure on my pulse point increases. I am finally beginning to regain feeling in the rest of my body, and it’s incredibly painful, yet another sure sign that I’m somewhere in the withdrawal cycle because I’ve never felt bone-deep pain like this any other time. The needle slides out of my hand, a sickening pull, and I open my eyes slowly, coming face-to-face with my father.

To be clear, he and my mother never married, or had any romantic interaction at all, really. In reality he was more of a sperm donor, but on my birth certificate it lists him as father. My mother would never take away even a second of her precious research time for love (which I’m reasonably sure she’s unable to feel) and definitely not for her only son. I am a publicity stunt, a test subject, a pawn, and she’s never tried to pretend otherwise. What twisted plan of hers would involve sending Edward Branson, with whom I share half my genes, to my hospital room?

“What are you doing here?” I ask accusingly, and my throat burns with the weight of my situation. This time I am well and truly stuck, with no way to escape Erudite headquarters. I have no doubt that Jeanine is having me watched around the clock, and probably has a guard posted outside my door as well. Not to mention how incredibly weak I am, if I’ve gone into withdrawal within a day. Something is wrong with me.

“My job.” He doesn’t acknowledge in any way that we are technically related, not that I expected him to. I’ve only seen him a bare handful of times in my admittedly short life, and I feel as if he thinks he’s chosen the right side. That fact alone sets us apart, and makes me uncomfortable being doctored by him. “You’re a Dauntless leader; you know about that, right?”

He is mocking me and I know it, and there is no doubt in my mind that Jeanine sent him here. I want to run, leave this place and never return, but I still haven’t gotten all the feeling in my legs back and besides, there’s no way I could get out of the compound, considering how weak I am. So I lay there, strapped to the bed while he puts a different IV in my arm with a different drug, this one a light pink, the color of paralysis serum. To me it is a signal of something horrible about to happen, and I struggle for as long as I have control, though I know it’s pointless. Soon I am back to numbness, only able to move my eyes.

I don’t look over to see him leave, but I know when she enters because she makes sure that she is in my line of sight as she reads the charts on the foot of my bed. I want to glare at her but I am pinned in place by her cruelty, only able to listen as she speaks.

“How are the tests going?” she asks.


	6. Son

“They’re going well,” my father responds from somewhere out of my line of sight. I didn’t realize he was still there, but after a moment he is visible again, handing my mother a clipboard. My name is written on the top of it, I would assume. Why would she be interested in anyone else’s tests? She needs to use me, therefore I’m the only one that matters. “We’ve managed to induce early-stage withdrawal within a day. In less than a week it will be entirely out of his system. For lack of a better word, he’ll be cured.”

“Excellent.” She sets the clipboard down on the mattress, inches from my unfeeling leg. The sensation of paralysis serum is not a pleasant one for the parts of me that can still move—namely, my face. I can see my chest rising and falling with every shuddering breath I take, but that is the biggest movement I am allowed. Jeanine continues not to look at me—instead she begins examining the readings on the machines attached to me, making satisfied noises as she does so. “At this point a week is the quickest we can hope for. It’s a shame we couldn’t develop the serums a little further before we had to bring them out of testing.”

It’s obvious that he has a million and one questions. I open my mouth before he can ask any of them. “Wait. What drugs?” Clearly not a newer version of Instigate, or else I probably wouldn’t be withdrawn right now; quite the opposite, in fact. Is that why she really wanted me here? So I could fall right back into the role of ‘test subject’ I held for so many years? It’s not exactly a surprising thought, but still a disturbing one. What are they testing on me? Part of me worries it’s a weaponized serum, and she’s going to use it to attack the rebel Dauntless, who are surely hiding at either Candor or Amity’s headquarters. I hope that, as they are a peace-loving faction, Jeanine will check Amity for them first, and Christina will have time to hide herself away in Candor before a veritable hell breaks loose all over the city.

“The withdrawal drugs, obviously.” Her voice as she checks the printouts on the machines hooked up to me is the auditory equivalent of a bored initiate rolling their eyes. Withdrawal drugs? What could she possibly mean by that? “To rid you of that horrible…addiction of yours.”

Ah. So this _is_ about Instigate. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I can’t help but be a little awed by how obviously skewed her priorities are. Every second she wastes trying to cure me (because that’s what it is, a waste; I can never be cured) could be spent on her misguided war, surely a worthier cause in her mind. And I could function perfectly well if she continued to supply me Instigate. It would be a good way to keep me submissive, at least, because I don’t handle withdrawal well, especially not now. So why waste the time? Is her superiority complex so bad that she has to make herself my savior by curing me?

“Inconvenient for you, is it?” I know there’s no chance at provoking her but I can’t help it; my anger is nearing a boiling point and the words spill out. “Can’t use me as effectively if you have to keep up my supply?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replies coolly, betraying no emotion except perhaps mild annoyance. “If you find yourself incapable of doing your job, I can easily replace you with someone more…competent.”

I clench my teeth—it’s about the only thing I can do—in an effort to stop myself from retaliating. The fact that she assumes I’ll do what she wants as soon as I’m off the drugs is ridiculous. It takes all my concentration to keep my breathing and heart rate steady, not to give anything away. She taught me how to do that, years ago as a test subject. Ironic how it’s working against her now. “And what job would that be?”

My father clears his throat. I feel him hovering near my head, though I can’t see him, and it only serves to heighten my discomfort. “Jeanine, perhaps this is a conversation best left for another time? He might be more willing to help us after his…situation is taken care of.”

“Nonsense. The longer we wait, the more set against it he’ll be. We’ll have an easier time convincing him if we simply tell him now.”

It’s getting more and more difficult to keep my breathing in check. She’s already saying I’ll need convincing, so this doesn’t bode well for me. I remember all too vividly the things she’s convinced me to do over the past two years, things I could’ve said no to if I had the backbone. How different my life would have been if I’d told her it was never my intention to lead. Would it have changed even one segment of her plan? Or was— _am_ —I truly that expendable?

When she turns back to me her face has lost some of its composure; I can see she’s angry with me and with him. “Your job, as it has always been, is to lead. Dauntless may be in shambles now, but that doesn’t strip you of your title. You still have authority over your faction.” I can’t help but notice the distaste with which she says _your faction_. Even nearly three years after I chose to transfer, it’s still a blow to her pride. “You will take what remnants of your faction made their way here and use them to exterminate the rebels.”

I feel nauseous and I’m not sure if it’s from her words or whatever they’re feeding into my system now. The rebels. The ones who didn’t submit to Erudite’s control, which more than likely include most of my friends and most certainly includes Christina. That alone makes my stomach turn at the thought of storming their hideout (wherever that may be) with an army. Does she really think it’ll be that easy to make me kill my friends? As far as I know, they don’t yet have any kind of mind control they’d be willing to stick into me along with all these other drugs, but that could change at a moment’s notice.

“I’d love to hear how you’re planning to accomplish that,” I manage to choke out, trying not to show that she’s caught me off guard.

“You’ll do what we want,” she says with perhaps too much confidence. “Do you forget we have leverage? Your friend, who we could bring back at any moment if we so chose?”

I try not to let it sway me, but her fact swims before my eyes and suddenly all I want is to see her. I know they could do it too, and if I do what she wants, it’s unlikely she’ll go back on her word. I can give her that much. But Asher has been dead for weeks at this point—would there even be a chance the serum would work on her? Not to mention that—I have to acknowledge this truth—she’s dead. That’s it. She doesn’t belong in this world. Part of me is glad she didn’t live to see it.

“She’s gone,” I say flatly. “Even if you did bring her back, it would just be a waste of your resources.”

“Perhaps. But I’ve some tricks up my sleeve yet.” She smiles nastily, and I feel my stomach turn again as she looks back down at the charts she’s been all but ignoring, making a few notes. I hear the door open as my father slips out, and she hooks the clipboard back over my bed before she turns to leave. “The serum?” she throws over her shoulder in a manner that seems almost casual. “It’s not a hallucinogen.”

I don’t realize what she means until the door slides shut behind her with a soft hiss. Either she was just playing games with me—which is a possibility I can never rule out—or she just told me that the dream I’d had not too long ago wasn’t a dream at all. And if that’s true…I don’t even want to think about where that might lead me. Not a battle between Erudite and what’s left of Dauntless—between my past and my present.

The icy feeling of the sleep serum is creeping along a vein in my arm and this time I don’t fight it; my strength has been sapped. When I finally succumb to sleep, I’m thinking about Christina.


	7. Truth

The private quarters they give us are quarters in name only, and they’re not private either. All they’ve done is take one of the common rooms on a higher floor and shove a massive amount of bunk beds and cots into it. There are communal bathrooms down the hall complete with showers, but aside from that, we have no privacy. They’ve offered to provide us with clothing and toiletries too, once things have settled down, and I suppose I should be grateful for their generosity, but all I feel is anger. They could’ve done something to stop this in the first place. Perhaps if the other factions had teamed up, agreed to work together, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.

It’s not fair of me to think these things. I know that. But my fury at the people who destroyed my life won’t go away, even as the other Dauntless are laying down on cots and wiping away their tears and generally trying to calm down. I’ve never been more alone, not when my parents divorced, not when I transferred to Dauntless and didn’t have any real friends. I’ve got a feeling I am one of the only people here who has any sympathy for the traitors, even if it’s only because of one person. I wonder how many of them are only there for someone else, a family member or lover they didn’t want to leave behind. Part of me wishes I could be one of them.

Will is dead. God only knows what’s happened to Tris and David. Asher, who might have been an ally if she had deserted, died what feels like a lifetime ago. Eric was all I had left, and now he’s gone too. He might not even be alive.

I force myself to push that thought away as I climb to the top of one of the bunk beds, hitting my knee on the railing as I sit down. The pain is enough to make me grit my teeth, and though I’ve surely experienced much worse, it’s a welcome distraction. He has to be alive. If I start to believe he’s not I might lose my mind.

The ceiling I’m forced to stare at as I lay back is stark white, and the fluorescent lights shine in my eyes uncomfortably. There hasn’t been a single thing here so far that hasn’t made me uncomfortable in one way or another. I haven’t slept in over a day and I’m sure I’ll collapse any minute if they don’t give me time to sit and rest. I can already tell I’m falling asleep and I don’t try and fight it. Considering everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t be surprised if sleep becomes hard to get soon…

~oOo~

In my dream, I am on a train with Eric, and we are hurtling towards Erudite headquarters. There’s a bag next to me and when I open it it’s full of empty brown bottles and broken syringes. He smiles at me wickedly. Blood is dripping from the bullet wound in his foot and pooling on the floor around us. I look around frantically for something to stop it—bandages, an extra shirt, anything—but the car is empty. Just the satchel, Eric, and me.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he says as I pull off my shirt and ball it up to press against the wound. His voice is weak and he’s clearly just trying to make me feel better. “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.” There are more shattered syringes at his side, and goosebumps are forming on my arms from the cool air. I feel a tightening in my chest and recognize the sensation of tears welling up. He could die. He is going to die and there’s nothing I can do to save him.

“Yes, I do.” He is barely speaking above a whisper now. His grey eyes flutter shut and I panic, press on the bullet wound harder even though I know it is not enough. I’m hurling prayers at every deity I can think of and none of them are listening; I am truly alone. His breathing becomes shallow and I am crying freely now and as he slips away I hear him repeat “I’ll be fine…”

“Christina!”

My eyes fly open and I jerk my leg away from whatever is touching it over the railing. For a minute I search hurriedly for the knife that had been in my pocket, but then I remember they took all our weapons when we entered the compound. I’ve spent so long at Dauntless headquarters with a weapon on me constantly that I feel naked without it.

Someone repeats my name. I look over the edge and it’s Ivoree, twirling the end of her red ponytail around her fingers nervously. She looks confused and I sigh, pressing a hand to my forehead and hoping I didn’t startle her too much with my obsessive paranoia. “I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly as I climb down. I am much taller than her, and it feels awkward having to look down on her. “Things have been a little—”

“I know.” She smiles sympathetically, but I can’t tell if it’s faked or not. Theoretically, being away from Candor should have made me better at sniffing out lies. I fear it has done the opposite. “I was there too. You don’t need to tell me.”

I nod. There isn’t really anything else to say. We’re all still processing the grief in our own way—it has been less than a day, after all. “Did you need me for something?”

“Not me. Some Candor wanted to talk to you. It seemed important.” She looks me up and down with a critical eye. “You should probably get cleaned up first, though.”

I look down at my clothes, covered in sweat and blood, and laugh a little in agreement. It isn’t genuine. Nothing about me now is.

Ivoree awkwardly informs me that there’s soap and towels in the bathroom, as well as clean clothes that should fit me. I thank her and leave as quickly as I can without looking rude. Normally I wouldn’t care, but appearances matter now. The Candor need to see that we’re not going to fuck up their way of life.

The bathroom has a black marble floor and matching white walls, like nearly every other room in the compound. There’s a ledge with a mirror above it across from the open shower stalls, and on it are towels and bars of soap and clean black clothes. Next to that are the more medical-looking supplies: bandages, antiseptic…and a pair of scissors. I walk over and pick them up carefully, almost jumping when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

There are dark purple rings under my eyes, and my skin has taken on an ashy pallor. My clothes look even worse reflected back at me. My hands are shaking. I can see the marks on my arms when I shuck off my jacket. My hair is greasy and matted with blood. I look an awful lot like someone else.

This isn’t Christina. I don’t know who this stranger is, but she’s not me. I reach up to touch my hair and it snags on my fingertips. There isn’t much that can be done for it now. It is part of the old Christina, the one who died in the Dauntless compound not hours after initiation. She doesn’t belong in this new world.

So I raise the scissors. And I cut.


End file.
